


Mornings Are Always The Best Bit

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Hand Kisses, Love, Lovely, M/M, Marriage, Married Lovies, Morning Cuppas, Mornings, Totally In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock share a morning together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings Are Always The Best Bit

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to add here. Just a little drabble to re-enact my fluff mindset. Married John and Sherlock are my favourite John and Sherlock. In this, even though it's only a one-shot ficlet, I like to think of them as married for seven months, with no Mary Morstan involvement prior. Also, I simply wished to enhance my imagery and descriptive talents. Got a bit rusty with that. Hope it isn't too terrible. Love you, darlings, enjoy. <3 xx

John was clad in Sherlock’s scarlet dressing gown, the belt looped and twisted up loosely, the lapels swaying languorously across his damp chest, pebbles of water droplets drooling along the scarred meat of his shoulder still. His nimble, callused fingers steadied the pot upon the oven top, settling the water to boil, as per routine.

“Rose Congou?” came a small, sleepy voice.

John hummed, a vague response in agreement to the inquiry. He flipped the sticky switch of the stereo, a tender, mildly static, melody of Pachelbel wafting in the Sunday morn air. A body ambled through the wee hall, the delicate sound of socked feet shuffling across hardwood tickling John’s ears, coaxing a smile.

“My mug is out?”

“It always is, love.”

A giggle. Drowsy and cute, the baritone roughening it wondrously. Big eyes, a darling crystalline, stained with sea foam and driftwood, peered at him, pupils oddly dilated from a heady, delightful slumber.

“You forgot something in the bedroom.”

John’s eyebrows knit together, a lick of confusion stalling him.

“What is it?”

Large hands, artisan's fingers, were lifted upwards into John’s peripheral vision, gingerly grasping a silver band, the hint of a worn engraving shining with the angle of the lighting.

“Oh.”

“What were you doing with it?”

“Toying with it. Admiring those pretty words for the thousandth time.”

“They’re just words, John. Nothing too explicitly special about them.”

“They’re special to me, darling. They’re your vows to me. Material worth of how much you love me; that’s the special bit. Reminds me of when you proposed. Makes the butterflies flutter.”

“You’re a lovely romantic.”

“Mm, I know.”

Sherlock gave a bright laugh, his heart sputtering to the memory, tackled with the reminders of that horrendous embarrassment. Of the imbedded sanguine flush upon his cheeks as he stumbled with the tiny box, popping the question upside down, words faltering with every fumble of his fingers.

“You’re beet red, you know.”

“Shut it.”

The brunet digressed, gathering John’s left hand in his own, and bringing his lips down upon the fourth finger, pressing a kiss, sugary-sweet, positively dripping with undisguised devotion.

“Sherlock...” A sigh, breathy and beautiful.

Sherlock wriggled the ring past each knuckle, his touch languid and reverent.

“There. Perfect fit.”

“Mm, good. Can’t have it falling off.”

The squeal of the kettle shattered the opportunity of a reply, and John gladly flipped his body back round, teasing the notches until the flames fizzled, allowing the blond to collect the warmed water, and pour a gracious amount into each of their mugs.

“Oh, that smells divine.”

“I know. It’s your favourite, after all.”

“You know me so well.”

“Husbands always do.”

“Definitely.”

The small bags were settled, sated, in their hot liquid, while a small John Watson-Holmes was settled, sated, in the arms of his hot - both complementary and physically - husband.


End file.
